"Eat," Kira repeated. "Whatever you say next will only make it worse."
She was right. Verity ate.
The porridge was excellent, thick with nuts and dried fruit, sweetened with honey. She made herself focus on the flavors, on the texture, on the simple animal satisfaction of filling her stomach. Around her, the hall hummed with morning activity. Warriors discussed patrol routes. Someone was complaining about a loose shoe on one of the horses. Normal sounds. Ordinary sounds.
No one was staring at her. Not anymore. The initial ripple of interest had passed, absorbed into the rhythm of the day. She was news, but not urgent news. A piece of information to be noted and filed away.
Delia slid onto the bench across from her, moving carefully around her growing belly.
"So," Delia said. "You survived."
Verity set down her spoon. "Is it that obvious?"
Delia reached for the bread, tore off a piece, and chewed thoughtfully. "In Valdara, this would be shameful. Something tohide. Here, it is just... information. You were with someone. You enjoyed it. That is not a scandal."
Verity considered this. In the Royal Archive, she had spent nine years building a reputation on competence and discretion. Her personal life, such as it was, had been invisible by design. The idea of her colleagues knowing anything about her body, her desires, her intimate moments was unthinkable.
Here, her body had announced her desires to an entire fortress before she finished her breakfast.
She should hate it. The exposure. The loss of control over her own narrative.
She did not hate it.
"You work in the tannery," Verity said. "With Brenneth."
Delia's eyebrows rose at the abrupt shift, but she nodded.
"What is he like?"
"Brenneth?" Delia considered the question, reaching for another piece of bread. "Quiet. Patient. He doesn't talk much." She tilted her head. "Why do you ask?"
Verity's fingers found the edge of her bowl, tracing the rim. The annotation surfaced in her mind, Targesh's angular handwriting pressed hard into the margin:Torunn Greymantle (Brenneth's brother).
"I found a reference," she said. "In one of the histories. His brother's name came up. I'm trying to understand what happened at that battle. The archives have the Valdaran account, but it's..." She searched for a word that was true without being revealing. "Incomplete."
Delia studied her for a long moment.
"You could ask him," Delia said finally. "He might talk to you, if you approach it right."
"How do I approach it right?"
"Honestly." Delia's mouth curved, but the expression held no humor. "Don't pretend it's just scholarly interest. He'll know. They always know."
Verity thought of Targesh in the archives, watching her explain her interest in border conflicts. Standing in his room, watching her comb through his histories. Did he know?
"The tannery is at the eastern edge of the outpost," Delia said, rising from the bench. "He'll be there now, if you want to find him."
She walked away before Verity could respond.
The tannery smelled of oil and smoke and the sharp, chemical bite of the solutions used to cure hide. Verity stood in the doorway, letting her eyes adjust to the dimmer light, and watched Brenneth work.
He stood at a long table, bent over a piece of leather stretched across a frame. His hands moved with the precision of long practice, a curved tool pressing patterns into the surface in sure, unhurried strokes. He was still massive by human standards, but lean where others were broad, his frame built for dexterity rather than brute force.
He did not look up when she entered. He did not need to, apparently.
"Archivist." His voice was low, uninflected. "You are far from your papers."
"I wanted to ask you about something."
